


Fingers

by hellasummer



Category: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Genre: Fucked Up, Gore, Killing, Nightmare, Sleep, fingers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:39:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3500444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellasummer/pseuds/hellasummer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A JTHM fanfic about fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fingers

"To know if you are in a dream or not, you can count your fingers because in dreams you have more or less or you're not able to see your hands or something like that."

He had heard in the park. He didn't notice who had spoke the words but they lingered as he now sat at home with his hands splayed out in front of him. The killer who hated sleep raised each finger from their curled positions as he counted them, exhaling almost in relief as the last one was the tenth. He was awake and he could know for sure that he was. Johnny watched himself stretch out his fingers as far as they would, repeatedly clenching them, and rolling his wrists around their joints until they clicked. He picked at the accidental cut on his index finger on his left hand and messed with the nail that was coming away from his right. His thumb rubbed at the damaged palm and continues to do so when his hands finally dropped out of his sight. The disturbed man scratched his itching gums with his teeth and scrunched his eyes closed a few times to fight his tired body before finally getting to his feet, looking around the room as he thought of what to do next.

He had ten fingers. He was awake.

The maniac was descending, dropping his feet down heavily onto each step, running his gloved hand along the wall as he went, catching indents and grooves in the wood with his finger tips. He walked down a long time before he saw an opening into a room, speeding up his pace slightly as he neared the entrance, only to stop at the last few steps. His foot hovered over the third to last step as he tried to remember what he was doing before this. He remembered walking down the stairs but not what came before them, what level of his basement he was on before the one he was about to go into. Nny let his foot drop onto the step that it hovered so he could turn to look up the stairway. All he could see was the stairs that he could only remember, nothing beyond them but black. It made him feel as if he had came from nothing but he could not remember if he did.

He moved on from the stairs and finally stood in the doorway of the new room, looking right to see empty space and looking left to see a woman at the far side. She faced the wall, sprawled out on her side with a broken leg that pointed a way that wasn’t anatomically possible. Her skin shined from sweat that also soiled her hair, clinging to her scalp and the skin round it that it fell on, blood soaked into the tips that dropped in the pool underneath her. That meant she was fresh, that she was killed recently but he could not remember that either. Did he ascend the stairs before to then forget and come back? He could have left her to die long before returning, having her die alone but he couldn't remember if he would do that. He could smell her and it disgusted him. His teeth clenched as a reaction to the scent.

Johnny’s beady eyes searched her body more for something that would trigger at least the smallest memory of how she came to be, trying to think if her blue dress was something key to her demise yet only remembering the stairs and now. His eyebrows knotted in frustration at his lack of memory, eyes darting around her corpse more aimlessly until they caught on her out stretched arm that followed to her hand with its nails dug into the floor. There were cravings around it, words that he couldn’t make out from where he stood. It reminded him of his own hands and he brought them up to count.

He had ten fingers. He was awake.

The cold air felt sharp when he inhaled through his nose and he was angry. It shook him and made his sight unfocused, seeing only red. After inhaling the night air some more times he began to slowly relax, becoming aware of what was happening around him. What he saw in front of him was a wall, the splashes of blood that covered it being the only colour he could focus on moments ago. He instantly knew that this was his violent work which meant that if he brought his eyes down he would see the source. And there it was. His eyes had dropped down to a girl, the remains of a girl. Not a lot of her top remained and neither did her torso, her skin being in shreds, gash upon slice upon gouge from the result of his anger. Her insides were in pieces, the knife lost within the bloody mess. Why was she here? The tongue that lay a few centimetres from her could mean that she had said something as horrid as the result. But why was she here before this?

Johnny heard the music, the beat being what he heard most as the wall muffled the rest. If he listened harder he could hear the voice that sang along with it but not enough to know what the lyrics were. She was here to dance, the killer figured out as he stood behind the night club. She came here to meet people and be happy while he was here feeling sad, alone with her corpse.  He then became aware of her stench, wanting to leave with having stared at her for far too long. It took him a moment to move but he did eventually leave the passage behind the building and entered the street.

The street had a few small groups of people heading away from the club, people laughing obnoxiously and loud, tripping over their own feet, intoxicated. Johnny turned to go in the opposite direction of where they headed, wanting to avoid anymore incidents but was shoved almost back into the alleyway as he was not able to avoid a group that headed straight his way. His anger built up again inside him, reaching out to grab the man at the back of the group but the sight of his hands stopped him. The hatred was forgotten and to count was remembered.

He had ten fingers, eight fingers and two thumbs. He was awake.

He closed the thin book and tossed it to the side, fed up of how the words would blur and mix together on the page, how his pencil would write words that were not his own. The pencil didn’t drop from his hand however, it stayed but for some reason he couldn’t truly feel it. His strained eyes looked around the room as he squeezed it in his hand, reminding himself that he was in his basement, and the woman still lay there. Why hadn’t he moved her yet? And how long had she been there again? She still looked wet with red. How long had he been sat here?

There was scratching, faint scratching that brought him out of his thoughts. It didn’t take him long to realise that it was the woman, her outstretched arm shifted slightly as her fingers carved into the floorboards beneath her. The killer leaned in his sitting position to get a better look at her, eyes unblinking as if they were taped open, made to watch. She wasn’t breathing. Johnny took that into note but more of her moved, the scratching got louder as she scraped the wood more violently. How was she not breathing?

A wave of panic went through him. Why was he panicking? Was he breathing? His mouth opened a large amount, readying to intake air but his lungs didn’t fill. She had stopped scratching now and her body began to shift more, his eyes never tearing away despite his inability to breathe. The blue dress she wore shifted along with her body, moving from her side to her back and now onto her other side, facing him with eyes as wide as his, her mouth stretching open as his did. She was trying to breathe, struggling like he was. Tears formed at the girl’s eyes, fat black marbles of liquid streaming down her face. His eyes were locked with hers as he tried to force his body to inhale, pulling himself up to sit straighter, giving his lungs the extra room to fill. How was he still awake? The lack of oxygen should have knocked him out by now. Nny desperately held his hands out to see if he was truly awake, the pencil finally slipping out of them, having to restart his counting a few times as his eyes would not focus. The woman hissed and his body suddenly became comfortable with not breathing.

He had eleven fingers. He was awake.

There were bulging eyes in front of him but they didn’t meet his own, the face was twisted with pain and his own burned with rage. His fingers were curled around the neck of a business man, thumbs pushing into the flesh with almost enough force to break through the skin. He stood in his living room, the TV being the only noise in the room until the man’s mouth started to twitch, moving more distinctively in trying to form words. The words were there, under the TV’s white noise but could not be heard. The killer urged him to speak louder, to start from the beginning of what he was trying to tell him. And when his voice became loud enough for Johnny to hear, the words still could not be understood as his voiced sounded muffled like it was coming from old, broken speakers, it soon overpowered the TV. The pained face now began to change, it began to warp. One of his bulging eyes grew bigger, the other moving up his face to make room for the growing one, his mouth twisting into his nose but still spoke its loud incomprehensible words.

Johnny dropped the man when his head suddenly snapped up to finally look at him, jumping back a few steps away from the collapsed man, his anger had now become panic, scared. But he wasn’t frightened because of the man but rather his state. He flung his shaking hands up in front of him, starting to count his fingers but the forth fell away from its place and before he knew it he was losing more of them. His first reaction was a panicked shout, eyes looking down to search for them but all that was beneath his feet was black. He didn't know what to do next. His actions became more panicked, his breathing was sharp, he was slapping his hands together for reasons he did not know, stopping when it made him lose another. He saw movement behind the few fingers he had left, he wanted to count how many he had but he couldn’t. Johnny looked to the man almost as if for help, finding that he was standing now, his face was a mess but the suit we wore was pristine until black started to stream from all the features on his face, his green tie was black within a few seconds. It made the homicidal maniac feel sick; he choked and cried out, tears soon covering his face.

Brought to his knee, hunching over as he began to feel worse, Nny was a wreck. He brought his palms to his face to wipe away the tears, pulling them away to find them covered in black, letting out more distraught cries. The black flowed from with eyes and nose, filling his mouth and forcing his teeth out of his gums. He used what fingers he had left to drag the thick liquid out, pulling teeth along with it, the rest of his fingers falling along with his crooked teeth. The killer gagged as the black now pushed through his throat, gushing out his mouth. It filled the room, engulfing the business man to leave him alone with his agony as he was pulled up by it, wrapping around his limbs, crushing this skeletal body. And then he dropped.

 

 

The killer who hated sleep lay awkwardly on the stairs, his eyes snapped open, and he was drenched with sweat. When he began to move, he found that his body was stiff. One of his hands was laid in front of him. He didn’t count his fingers.


End file.
